


Heir of Ash and Fire

by ProsperDemeter



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Don't read this it's terrible, F/F, Fae folk, Fae!Gwen, Fantasy AU, Gen, High Fantasy, I have no idea, Idk what i'm doing, It's mature for a reason even if I'm not sure what that reason is yet, King!Harry, Knight!MJ, M/M, Magic, Outlaw!Peter, Phoenix - Freeform, Thief!Peter, What am I doing, Witchcraft, beware: I will probably fuck all kinds of shit up, or some shit like that - Freeform, plot twist: I don't know what i'm doing, this is a wild one guys, uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProsperDemeter/pseuds/ProsperDemeter
Summary: "They say that it was on the final day of autumn - when all of the leaves had fallen off their trees and painted the ground with their soft crunch - that the phoenix was born."With her kingdom on the brink of war, fae princess Gwen takes matters into her own hands and hires the likes of a notorious thief to steal her the one thing that prophecy says can bring peace to her land - the fire of a dying phoenix. Peter takes the bounty for more than one reason - she is offering a rather generous amount of coin and he yearns for revenge on the Goblin King for killing the only family he had left. Meanwhile, with the death of King Norman, Harry is thrust into a role he never wanted and is left questioning at every turn exactly who it is in his castle he has left to trust.
Relationships: Harley Keener & Gwen Stacy, Harry Osborn & Flash Thompson, Harry Osborn & Peter Parker, Harry Osborn/Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Harry Osborn, Michelle Jones/Gwen Stacy, Peter Parker & Gwen Stacy
Comments: 33
Kudos: 24





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [censored](https://archiveofourown.org/users/censored/gifts).



> Why am I starting something new? Why? Why am I doing this? To myself and to you? 
> 
> Shout out to GP and Cat for being the best betas a girl could ask for. 
> 
> And uh... enjoy I guess?

They say that it was on the final day of autumn - when all of the leaves had fallen off their trees and painted the ground with their soft crunch - that the phoenix was born. 

It was in a forest that the woman was fleeing, hand pressed tight to her protruding belly and the salty taste of sweat dripping down her temples. The ground was rough on her bleeding bare feet, twigs stabbing into the soles and broken knife cradled uselessly in her hands, the copper blade digging into the palm of her skin as she ran from her would be captors. She was only a glade away from her people and away from protection but the baby was stretching to get out and the ache in her pelvis reminded her of the water that had poured down her legs only moments before. 

Her guard was dead, her handmaidens as well and the knights hunting them in their black and green cloaks were closing in quickly. “Mama,” her son urged her forward with his broken and terrified eyes and his small hand squeezed hers in what she knew was his form of comfort. He was so small, her Harley, with his hair that matched the white of snow and eyes the color of summer moss. His wings were fluttering about behind him anxiously, blood splattered on the tips of lilac - the color of royalty. He had seen so much in his nine years of life that he should not have been forced to see. They had been foolish to go out on a walk on the eve of winter such as today. “Just a little while longer, Mama.” 

The baby inside of her screamed to be let out, though, was ready to welcome the world on this massacre of a day. 

She couldn’t go on for much longer. “Go,” Serena nudged him forward and held the bottom of her belly as though she could cradle the baby in her arms. “Go beyond the gates. Where they cannot enter.” 

“No,” Harley grabbed her forearm with the surprising strength of children and pulled her a few more steps forward until she yelled in time with the baby’s push downwards. “Mama, I won’t leave you.” 

He was named after the hare’s meadow where she had given birth to him - her ancestors surrounding her and blessing the birth of her first born. The ritual for having a child was sacred, no men were allowed to be present but all of the women of the kingdom would enchant the groves that the child chose to be welcomed on. Serena remembered walking in her green gown - the color of his eyes - and feeling the grass beneath her toes. Her hair had been shorter then, as all new mothers wore theirs in tradition, and her golden crown resting atop her soft yellow hair. Mariana, her oldest friend, had walked just behind her and where the water had poured was where they had stopped - her legs a pillow for Serena’s head as the women of the kingdom welcomed the royal prince into the world. 

It had been a peaceful time, if not also painful, when Harley had come into her life and she had been gifted such wonderful nine years with him. 

Serena looked up at the sky - orange with the setting sun - and cried out for her ancestors to bless  _ this _ one - this second born baby - with a safe welcome into the world. 

_ This _ child was welcomed into the world with blood and screams and no ritual to be observed. Serena was making much too much noise for someone fleeing certain death and Harley, her little boy, did as much as he could to keep with the tradition. Men weren’t allowed at births - but he would not leave her side even as she ordered him to do so. He carefully arranged flowers by her head, pressed his little hand to her quivering stomach and stroked her hair as she cried for the life she knew she would not be able to see grow. The baby did not come easy and she did not come quietly - she burst into the world with loud screams and blood on her face and hands clenched into little fists. 

Serena caught her second born herself, stared down at her wrinkled and crying face, and felt grabbed for the broken copper knife she had carried with her. She sawed through the cord and it felt no different than cutting off a limb and she thought of where the water had broken - where this beautiful baby had decided to be born. The river had crashed white against the rocks there and this child, so very much born of blood, was also born of purity. “ Gwenhwÿfar .” Serena blessed her with the name of her grandmother, tore off the cloak of velvet that she had been wearing only moments before and bundled her up safely before pressing her tightly into Harley’s waiting arms. 

He hadn’t looked away from her and his lilac wings fluttered helpless and nervous behind him. “Run, my boy.” Serena ran a hand down his cheek, startled by the red that she left against the skin. “Take  Gwenhwÿfar and run.” 

“Mama,” His lips trembled and he cradled his sister’s head just as she had shown him months before. 

“I will be right behind you.” It was a lie, but it was the lie of a mother that knew she wouldn’t be able to go far enough to hide them. The knights were only moments away - she could feel the beats of their steps against the soil. “Protect your sister.” 

“Yes mama.” Serena hugged them both close to her breast and heaved a deep, shuddering breath. 

“Now go.” 

Serena did not shut her eyes until Harley was out of her view, Gwenhwÿfar’s screams echoing through the wood - or perhaps just in her own ears. 

She died before the knights could even stab her through with their steel and, legend had it, when her spirit left her body the forest burst into flames.

* * *

The glade outside of Caerleon wasn’t normally bursting with energy. The smells were what pulled Peter in - after days of traveling the scent of roast and fresh bread wafting through the wind was enough to stop any normal passerby on their walk and knock them astray. The Fae border was usually closed and Peter had crossed these woods many times on his way back to the kingdom he currently resided on the outskirts of. It was a rare day indeed that the Fae wandered amongst men. He stopped atop the hill, pat the neck of his brown stable horse and watched the crowd that mingled with only minor interest. 

He had another day’s ride until he reached his destination and the quickest way  _ wasn’t _ by stopping at the marketplace but, still, his stomach grumbled for more food and his coin purse was dangerously low. “I’ll be quick.” He told the horse and tied the leather reins to the trunk of a tree before pulling up his hood to hide his face. 

An outlaw wouldn’t do good in these parts but he was  _ hungry _ and, perhaps, if he returned back home with a gift for May she would forgive him for his current line of employment. 

The smells were even more tantalizing up close and it was incredibly difficult to spot which of the figures were fae and which were human. Save for their near invisible wings it was nearly impossible to spot them. It wouldn’t do for Peter to accidentally consume food from  _ them _ and then be stuck as their servant for all eternity. It seemed as though the others weren’t as concerned with what they took from offered hands and Peter watched as more than one drank from cups mysteriously never empty.  _ Fae are not to be trusted _ , May had told him in front of their fire when his lungs were aching from the cold.  _ They will trick us to make us their property. _

May, however, was also one that was deemed  _ untrustworthy _ by the normal folk. Her runes and drawings and herbs labeled her a witch and their home had been vandalized on more than one occasion. “We must be kind,” she told him when their livestock were slaughtered and they had only bread to eat. “They do not know what they’re doing.” 

Ignorance, Peter had decided, wasn’t an excuse for terrible actions. 

He had been raised among magic, had the runes for protection inked into the skin of his arms and carried the herbal tinctures she had taught him to make with him at all times. He knew how to make potions to heal and potions to kill and every night he gave an offering to the Gods that watched over him and his kind. Peter had been raised amongst magic, but he never had the  _ luck _ of being magic himself. 

May had been a healer and Peter was a thief and she had never been happy with that. She had been angry the first time Peter had picked up a sword, too - Ben’s old and rusty one - and used it to frighten off some small children throwing stones at their windows. “If you are going to threaten,” May had gripped him tight around the neck of his shirt and thrown the sword into the fire so it could melt. “Then you are  _ not _ the boy I raised you to be.” 

No, Peter thought then with an apple he didn’t pay for dripping juices down his dirty chin, he supposed he wasn’t. May wouldn’t have been proud of him, Peter knew  _ that _ . But she had wished for him to survive and, well, he was doing all that he could to honor that wish of hers. Survival was difficult, afterall, especially in a world such as the one he frequented now. May had been able to lay her hands on someone and fill their bodies with sunlight to heal all wounds - Peter’s hands only reached into pockets and emptied them of their burdens quick enough that no one knew. “A tart!” It was a woman’s voice, soft and melodic, that directed itself to his ears. “For such a handsome, lone traveller they can be free.” 

She was talking to him, holding a wooden tray full of crisp, golden apple tarts that leaked sugar out of their corners. They looked devine and Peter’s stomach grumbled at the sweet scent of them. “No thank you, m’lady.” His fingers twitched against his leg, though. The tart did look absolutely divine and the thought of taking one was incredibly tantalizing. A fiddler and a flute played a soft melody by the entrance of Caerleon and it was only with focus that Peter could see the way the fae danced beyond the mushroom line that kept their home safe. May had told him it was a powerful enchantment that protected the Fae - one only strengthened by the death of their previous Queen when she had died mere moments away before the entire forest had caught fire. 

He had always wanted to pass the borders into their land but even royals weren’t allowed over the mushrooms and into their sacred home. King Norman had tried to locate the entrance multiple times but the Fae had a way of hiding themselves from those that wished them harm that even the word  _ magic _ seemed arcane to describe it. “I insist, young thief.” She thrust the tray more directly at him but stumbled backwards when Peter’s knife unsheathed itself with a glittering blade. 

“I  _ said _ , no thank you.” Threatening the Fae wasn’t the smartest course of action but Peter was never known for being anything but impulsive. The woman collected herself quickly and smiled a bright smile as he glowered. 

“You have done wrong here, child.” 

“I am not a child.” 

“Only a child would draw a blade inside of Caerleon.” 

She was right, of course, and Peter only noticed once she had stopped talking the silence that suddenly enveloped the glade. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the illusion for what it had been - there were no stalls, there was no music, there were no other people. He had stumbled right into a trap and  _ stolen _ an apple from what he had thought was a stall but was really a tree on Fae land - just a step over their mushroom border.  _ And _ consumed a bite of it before drawing a blade on one of their own. The woman’s wings were the golden yellow of a sunset and they glinted mockingly in the sunlight. “Well  _ shit _ .” 

* * *

King Norman passed on a rainy, overcast summer day and Harry was barely given time to mourn before he had been thrust into his father’s throne. The king’s crown was far heavier than that of the prince and the way the emeralds glinted against the gold looked a mess against the honey curls atop his head. As a prince the jewels had been less brilliant, the spikes and spires shorter, and the weight familiar. The coronation had been entirely too long, the feast even longer, and Harry had barely been able to stomach most of it before he drank his weight in wine and dismissed himself to his chambers to mourn in silence. 

He wasn’t sure what it was he was mourning more, if he were to be honest, his father or his freedom. Harry had never wanted to be King and his father had insisted that Harry would be absolutely terrible at it. Just a few hours in and Harry was already piss drunk and contemplating just how far the crown would fly if he tossed it out of his window. Would a commoner pick it up on the cobblestone and peddle it for coin? Would they do the same to his body if he tossed himself out with it? 

“My King,” Michelle didn’t knock - Michelle  _ never _ knocked even if it was a situation where she was expected to do so.  _ A fine wife _ \- those were the words his father had used to explain Michelle just a week before. Harry hadn’t known how to explain that she was nothing more than his closest friend and ally even then. He definitely didn’t know how to use the words now. “If I may be frank, highness.” 

Harry waved a hand in her direction, wobbled on the balls of his feet and leaned out from his window just enough to feel the breeze brush over his eyelashes. “Of course.” 

“You’re piss drunk.” 

“Absolutely.” 

“And about to fall flat on your face out of the window and then where will we be but with Eugene as King.” 

Harry felt his lips twitch up into an unwilling smile. “Oh he would be so lucky.” 

Michelle’s hand, strong but unyielding, tugged him into the warmth of his bed chambers by the back of the ridiculous vest he had been forced into wearing. “You do not wish to die today, my King.” 

“Please stop calling me that.” It felt so odd to hear that title addressed to him, especially out of Michelle’s lips. She was his oldest friend and, as such, she had never once referred to him by his royal title unless they were among elders. Harry had always seen Michelle as his equal - as someone that had bested him in combat training and  _ refused _ to play the part of fair maiden.  _ She _ would do better as King than Harry ever would and he figured the crown would only look right atop her head. 

“ _ Harry _ ,” Michelle looked radiant, though, whenever her mother forced her into a bodice and gown. On her head was the circlet that the jewelers daughter, Bet, had given her after their tryst years ago. Bet was now married to the royal baker’s son, Edward - Ned, and expecting her first child. “You would look terrible picked apart by vultures.” 

“Perhaps then I would look as ugly as I feel.” He stumbled over his hastily kicked off boots and sat down in front of the fire that had been roaring all day. He felt too much like a child playing pretend with the crown on but it felt too heavy for his hands to lift it off his head. 

Michelle did it for him, placed it neatly on the tabletop and sat down in the chair beside where he sat on the floor. Her long, calloused fingers ran through the dark strands of his hair and she inhaled slowly. “You're missing your own party.” 

“It feels wrong to have a party and a funeral on the same day.” Harry muttered and shut his eyes against the onslaught of tears that threatened to cascade down his cheeks. 

If Michelle had more to say she didn’t dare utter it but, instead, let Harry’s head rest against her thigh and carded her fingers through his hair until the top of his head felt normal again. Norman had always said that the crown was heavy, had always warned Harry that as the heir to his throne he would have to stop being so soft and had tried so hard to beat the heart out of him until he stopped crying at night from the pain of whipping scars that painted his back. “Perhaps Eugene  _ should _ have the crown.” Harry said to the fire instead of to Michelle. 

She tugged on the strands of his curls sharply and without remorse. “Don’t say such foolish things.” 

“He has, at least, always wanted it.” 

“And that means he should have it? You will be the better king because the crown is nothing that you ever wanted.” 

“How does that make a good king, Chelle? The people will eat me alive.” 

“Eugene, the  _ prince _ and your father’s bastard child will rule just as your father has - with a cruel and iron fist and with swords instead of diplomacy.” Michelle had rehearsed this speech before, Harry knew that. She had been saying it to him for years. “We’ve had months to prepare for this day, Harry. Your father’s ailing health isn’t something new.” They called his father the Goblin outside of the castle - he was as cruel, angry and deadly as Goblins were in the tales parents told their children before bed. He had chased the magic out of Onryx years before Harry was born - crucified witches outside of the castle whose corpses still stood on the outskirts of the kingdom as a warning to all those who would dare enter. He cut off the hands of children that were caught stealing, set fire to the Fae lands of the East, and had been at war with the Iron Kingdom for nearly twenty years. He was not a  _ kind _ king, especially not in his last years. He had been losing his mind, muttering about the Phoenix of Caerleon Forest and the Spider thief that had been stealing from his kingdom for years uncaught. His skin had started turning green before he had finally succumbed to his death and when they had burned his body just that morning the smoke had been nearly the color of evergreens. 

_ Poison _ , the priests had insisted and warned and blessed themselves with crosses and holy oil. 

“We were going to escape,” Harry felt the need to remind Michelle of the plans they had made years before, when they were five and six respectively and had gotten as far as the Caerleon border before getting caught. Michelle had whipping scars to match his own across her back and, unlike him, she wore them proudly for display. She had always been stronger, always been the protector that he had needed his entire life. Michelle had always longed to be a knight and, as the daughter of a blacksmith, she had learned how to wield a blade before she could walk. “Do you remember?” 

“We were going to escape and live with the faeries.” Michelle hummed as though she was remembering happier times. “Perhaps, instead of escaping, with you as our king we can instead unite our lands.” 


	2. Two

Gwen had always been a much too curious child and that curiosity didn’t dissipate at all as she got older. Much to the consternation of her older brother she only got better at hiding it and, even now, she couldn’t stop herself from running her fingertips over the spines of the books she knew she wasn’t supposed to be looking at. The Queen’s library was out of bounds for her until she reached adulthood and was married, but Gwen had found the tower it resided in easy enough to scale. Harley had a sketch of their mother that sat in his bedchambers and he had always told Gwen that she looked like her. Gwen never saw the resemblance unless it was in him. 

_ He _ got her green eyes and hair that fell like waves on the ocean shore. Gwen had nothing of her but an upturned and slight nose and yellow hair. She thought she could imagine their mother in here though, tall and elegant behind the writing desk pouring over a journal. Mariana, the Queen’s handmaiden and closest friend, had told Gwen stories of her mother’s harmonizing voice and kind heart. Queen Serena had always prayed for a daughter, Mariana told her. Someone she could share her matronly knowledge with and pass on the leadership of their people. 

Gwen, personally, thought that Harley was doing a brilliant job in her steed. While their father had taken another wife, once Queen Serena had passed he had lost all claim to the title of King and it had, instead, passed onto the first born child. Gwen would inherit her mother’s crown and rule once she was of age and once that happened, Harley would have to step down only as her advisor. They were a matriarchal society, the Fae, and they only put up with Harley as a leader because he had Mariana by his side and their mother’s blood in his veins. 

Queen Serena had been fair and stern, kind and beautiful, and Gwen was afraid she only fit into two of those categories. Blindly, she grabbed a book off the shelf and flipped to a random page. The aging parchment creaked under her ministrations and she deftly ran her fingertips over the indents and curves of her mother’s writing. Gwen  _ hated _ writing, but it seemed her mother had written down everything she could think of. The entire history of their people was on these pages, written by those long before her and their forbidden knowledge was something Gwen wasn’t meant to have until she wore the Queen’s crown upon her curls. 

When she was little Harley would tell her the history of their people, curled up under the blanket that used to be their mother’s riding cloak in front of the fire with Gwen nestled tight into his side. He would run a hand through the gnats in her hair, pet softly over the edges of her wings, and spin tales that she could see dancing in the fire. 

It was their great great great grandmother that had found Caerleon - Queen Zanna. They had lived in peace with the humans for a millenia, had given them herbs and magic and taught them how to use fire to survive the harsh winters. But with the birth of their savior god they had denounced the Fae as evil, dark and demonic, and their King had tried to kill the Fae in their sleep. Queen Zanna and her enforcers had erected a firm border of protection with the help of the human witches around Caerleon but her lover, a human man named Alev stayed back to fight so that the Fae could escape. He burned in the fire the cruel king set upon the forest and, it was only the love that Alev and Queen Zanna had for each other that kept the fire from destroying all life within the trees. For his sacrifice, legend told that he was given the power to come back from certain death as though the flames had never touched him. 

Alev was experimented on by the humans, tortured for loving a Fae  _ and _ for being unable to be killed. The witches were the ones that saved him and hid him away from anyone that came looking for him. He never made it back to Queen Zanna - or at least their history books never said anything about their reuniting - and once he was taken in by the witches all trace of him vanished from even human history books. But their borders had been solidified, their people saved by the sacrifice of him and Queen Zanna. Their love had erected an unbreakable boundary over Caerleon forest. 

As long as there was a phoenix in the world then Caerleon would be safe from human intervention and the Fae could keep living. 

“The Goblin King is steps outside of our borders.” Gwen sucked in a sharp breath and flattened herself against the wall. Mariana, her mother’s old handmaiden and Harley’s most trusted advisor, had a strong and powerful voice even if it was soft and flowery. She was the only person, other than the Queen, that was allowed inside the room Gwen was currently hiding inside of and Mariana was a stickler for the old rules that said that Gwen wasn’t to step foot inside until she wore a crown. If Mariana caught her there would be a steep punishment, of that Gwen was sure. 

“Onryx has never been a threat before.” Her brother sounded so terribly regal when he was using his King voice. It always made something like worry crawl up Gwen’s spine. 

“I urge you against diplomacy, my King.” Gwen held her breath until her lungs burned and then breathed in a gulp of air as slow and quiet as she could manage. 

“Diplomacy is the only thing that has kept our people alive so far.” Harley remained stubborn in his words. “We cannot spare anymore soldiers to the front. We’ve already lost hundreds and our numbers are dwindling as it is.” 

Gwen had heard the rumors - the gentle rumblings of war on the horizon but whenever she had asked Harley about it he merely waved a hand in her direction and assured her that everything was going well. His voice now was telling Mariana something very different from what he had told Gwen. It felt like a confession - as though Gwen was listening to something that her brother hadn’t wanted her to know or worry about. “They wish to commit genocide.” 

“If our borders fail,” Harley said, grave and tired in a way Gwen had never heard her brother before. “Then I am afraid they will manage it.”

* * *

The dungeons weren’t cold in Caerleon which, honestly, was their one saving grace. Peter had been kept in many dungeons before, had sweat and bled and pissed in the corners. Either Caerleon wasn’t used to prisoners or they weren’t used to  _ human _ prisoners because they actually treated him quite well other than that first encounter. The guards brought him food, their wings fluttering in the sunlight that streamed through the bars on the windows, and Peter honestly couldn’t see much harm in  _ not _ eating it since he had already consumed a bite of a Fae apple. They could have his soul if they kept him from starving. 

Peter could always steal it back. 

His boots scuffed at the white stone he sat against - they had taken his blades and bow and he had seen the guards lock them in a room at the end of the dungeon. That lock would be easy enough to pick - but the one on the cell door seemed spelled shut. If he had access to the right herbs and spices he was sure he would have been able to create a mold for the key, but he hadn’t come prepared and all of his things were kept on his horse. 

Outside of the gate. 

Where he was sure robbers had gotten to already and ridden off with him. 

Peter huffed - that horse had been a good one and he had spent an entire month’s wages on him. Now, without a steed, Peter would have to complete his trek to the Iron Kingdom on foot and there was no way the soles of his boots would hold out that long. 

Would it be wrong to steal a steed from the very Fae that imprisoned him? Would that somehow break another Fae law he wasn’t actually aware of and make him somehow in their debt for life? 

Not for the first time he wished he had May to ask these questions of, but she would have merely clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes at him for getting himself into this situation to begin with. If he shut his eyes he could still imagine the wind from the hand she would hit him upside the head with as it blew over his hair. She would kiss his forehead as she always did immediately after and look him square in the eye until he vowed that he would never do something so stupid again. May would make him swear on the mint leaves for virtue and swallow a drink full of floating lavender to enhance the devotion of his promise and if she caught him crossing his fingers she would have made him clean out the chicken coop for months.

May’s voice had sounded soft as the wind against the green grass or as passionate as the ritual dances she would lead in the coven during solstices. She hadn’t been his mother nor had she ever demanded that he call her such a thing, but was happy to remain  _ Aunt _ until her final moments. But Peter had always been her boy - had always been loved by her. 

Uncle Ben had been his father’s brother and when Peter’s parents had died of a mysterious illness that brought havoc on their village, Ben hadn’t hesitated to offer Peter a home rather than send him to an orphanage. He had inherited Richard’s debt but had never asked Peter how he was going to repay it. Ben and May had been a kind and respected couple within their small ocean community, had stitched Peter clothes and taught him about what the world could hold for him. 

Neither of them would have been happy with his choices, but Peter thought that Ben, at the least, would have understood  _ why _ Peter had made them. 

The first time Peter had stolen was from a baker’s stall and he had just loaded out fresh eggs. The baker wasn’t from their town and had been a big, burly man with a beard that reached all the way to the middle of his protruding belly. He had loudly proclaimed to Peter that if he did not have money to pay then he would not be getting  _ any _ of his goods - no matter  _ how _ hungry the boy was. Ben was away on business that day, and none of their chickens had survived the harsh winter they had just suffered and it was May’s  _ name day _ surely a man such as the baker with his big belly full of food could spare just  _ one _ loaf of bread. 

Peter had taken it when the baker’s back was turned, had broke into a sprint all the way back home even if the warmth of the bread burnt the skin of his hand and placed it in the space of honor on the kitchen table. 

May had looked surprised for exactly a moment and then she had frowned and demanded to know where he had gotten it. “From the baker.” Peter had said like the naive child he was. “For your name day.” 

May hadn’t looked angry that time but, instead, her eyes had dimmed around the edges and grown heavy in the center. Her strong hands gripped Peter’s shoulders and she knocked her finger under his chin until he looked up into her face and smiled in a way that made her look ten years younger. “Did you pay for this bread, Peter?” 

Peter’s cheeks pinked and his ears were hot and, yet, he couldn’t  _ lie _ to May even if he wanted to. “No, Aunt May.” 

Her shoulders dropped and her head hung low, her chin touching her chest. “We will make it an offering, then.” She decided and hugged him close. “But  _ you _ are doing all of the work.”

* * *

“You’re late.” Donella huffed and tugged on the hem of Gwen’s gown just outside the golden gates that led into the throne room. The guards that stood regal on either side of the doors bowed their heads to keep from laughing and Gwen’s cheeks colored as she shook off Donella’s prodding hands. 

“Is he upset?” She needlessly asked and threateningly pointed her finger in Donella’s face when she reached up to tweak with the ends of her hair. 

“ _ Of course _ he’s upset. You’re late for what has to be the fifth time this week, your highness.” Gwen winced; Donella was right, of course, Gwen  _ had _ been late more times than usual this week and Harley  _ did _ reserve the right to be upset about it. Yet ever since that morning when Gwen had heard him talking she hadn’t been able to look her brother in the eye. She knew he had to have a reason for keeping such pertinent information about the state of their kingdom away from her, yet the fact that he  _ did _ still stung. Gwen trusted Harley with her life  _ and _ with her kingdom and the thought that he didn’t deem her necessary for the same only made her stomach ache more. 

Nevertheless, Gwen had found the solution within their mother’s tower. It was scrawled into the back of a journal written by Queen Serena’s grandmother in between an entry that graphically described the ritual for becoming a mother and a recipe for peach tea. Gwen had quickly learned that it was, perhaps, the only thing of note in the entirety of  _ that _ ancestor’s journals and tore out the page. She had it with her now, tucked into the leather pouch of her belt and just the thought of it burned the page into her mind. “Let me in.” The guards shared a look before each grabbing a handle and pulling. 

The door groaned as it moved and the noise echoed enough that if he hadn’t noticed before, Harley definitely  _ did _ notice then that they were opening. Gwen wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t sitting on the throne but, instead, toying with some of the moss and vines that trailed down the walls. If he ran the buds through his fingers enough a flower would bloom - purple or pink or, a few times, even orange. Colors of royalty. Colors of their family. 

Harley’s lilac wings fluttered in the air behind him and Gwen had always thought they were more regal than her own burnt and ashy ones. He told her that hers had burned in the fire of their mother’s soul and that it marked her a warrier and strong Queen. As a child, though, Gwen had heard the whispers from her people - burnt wings were an omen of war. They did not wish for her to take the throne in fear of what would happen to their people once she did. Their worry made more sense now that Gwen knew just how bad the quarrel with the Goblin King of Onryx was. 

“Perhaps I should have the inventors make up a way for you to tell time since you’re clearly incapable of following the direction of the sun.” A bellflower curved from his fingertips, bowed at its head and facing the floor. 

Gwen’s cheeks were nearly on fire and she resisted the urge to fan her face with the tips of her fingers. “Good afternoon, brother.” 

Harley finally turned to her, a smile curving at his lips and he looked much more his age when he smiled. “How upset was Donella? I fear you’ll frustrate her into an early grave.” 

Gwen’s shoulders dropped where they had been hunched by her ears and she wrapped her hand around his offered arm to stroll towards the open window. “Donella is more ancient than this castle, brother. I’m afraid even my lack of punctuality will not run her into the grave.” 

“Pity.” When Harley laughed it was with his entire body and the corners of his eyes crinkled in the strain of the sunlight streaming from the window. It bathed him in an unearthly yellow but Harley had always been a child of light. “I have news.” 

He didn’t  _ sound _ grave but Harley always had a way of delivering all manner of things to Gwen with a gentle blow. Her heart picked up its pace despite itself and Gwen swallowed past the thick worry that coiled in her throat. “As do I.”

Harley raised a brow and his green emerald eyes flicked down to where her hands twisted together before jolting back up towards her face. “Perhaps you should go first?” 

Perhaps she should, but Gwen couldn’t find the words to explain to her brother that she had broken into a room she was not meant to be in, overheard a conversation that was meant to be private, and then tore out a page of their history books to show him the one thing she thought could work in saving their people. “You first.” She insisted and smoothed her hand down the soft silk of her skirt. 

He didn’t argue but instead pulled her hands into his own and rubbed at the center of her palm until she opened her fingers wide enough for him to lace his through hers. “Rossa is with child.” 

“Oh,  _ Harley _ .” They had been trying for years and the joy that burst forth from Gwen’s chest was enough to send her careening into her brother’s chest. “How long?” She hugged him tight around his neck and felt his arms settle around her back and he was smiling when he pressed a kiss to her cheek. 

“The doctor says a month and she has just started to show.” 

Rossa had been in Gwen’s life nearly as long as Harley had - they had met when he was thirteen and married when he was twenty. Rossa was perhaps the closest thing Gwen had to a sister her entire life and Gwen had stood as her maid during their handfasting. She was a beautiful, slight, dark haired thing and she loved Gwen’s brother almost more than Gwen did herself. “And you?” Harley asked after a moment of celebration. “What news did you bring?” 

Gwen stared into his face, traced the lines that being King had etched into his skin and saw the joy that shone like sunlight from his eyes. She couldn’t ruin that for him, not today. “It does not matter.” She said instead. “I am just so  _ happy _ for you.” She pulled her brother back down for another tight hug around his shoulders and tried to silence the echoes of the words on the page she carried in her pocket. 


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh it's been so long yikes.

In the dream she could see herself, six and scrawny with a wooden sword on her waist, chasing after Harry as she had always been since they had learned to walk. Their friendship was unusual in the best of ways - Michelle was a commoner and Harry was her Prince. Her father, however, was the King’s favorite blacksmith and, because of that, Michelle spent a good deal of time in the castle. Michelle couldn’t remember a time where she wasn’t enamored with Harry - he was a bright burning flame in the midst of the darkness of the kingdom. He reminded her of the torches that people hung outside of their homes to blot out the darkness and chill of the night and he looked at  _ her _ as though she was the best thing in the entire realm. 

Her love for Harry was not romantic but she thought, perhaps, that it  _ could _ be if he were to ask it of her. Michelle had happily sworn over her life to him the moment she first met him and she would go wherever he followed without complaint. Which, Michelle thought, was how she found herself  _ here _ in the dream. 

It was a memory, clear as day and yet faded around the edges. She remembered most of the day but not all of it - could tell anyone that asked exactly the way the trees smelled of summer sap and the way the moss squished under her boots. The air had been hot on her bare arms and she was wearing a pair of Harry’s pants that were just slightly too short at the ankles. She never dressed  _ appropriately _ for a little girl when they were playing outside. If anyone had a problem with it they never told her but her father and  _ he _ never told her. Michelle had been wearing a crown of flowers and twigs against her dark hair - Harry had  _ insisted _ she wear one when  _ he _ had to wear one of gold and jewels. 

Even then they were an  _ odd _ sort. Michelle wasn’t the sort of person nobility spent time around - scruffy, dirty, and poor. She always felt horribly eclipsed by Harry’s brilliance or, rather, she supposed she was always  _ meant _ to feel eclipsed by him. Harry had uncanny ability of making anyone feel more like themselves, though, and so Michelle never felt as though she was anything  _ less _ than the princess her father called her at night. The two of them had snuck out of the castle on careful tip toes and restrained giggles in the early hours of the morning. 

Michelle had hidden them food in the cotton bag her father had given her to help with bringing materials to and from the castle and Harry had brought along an extra riding cloak for her to cover her shoulders with. It was a heavy wool, a dark and deep blue, but it had a hood and soft fur along the inside and Michelle had seen him in it exactly three times and she had always wished for it to be hers. 

He had a bruise on the left side of his jaw and the tips of his fingers were burnt red. 

The King was not a  _ nice _ man. 

Michelle had not needed her father to tell her that. 

There were rumors that he  _ had _ been kind when Queen Emily was alive. But she had passed in childbirth, bled out on the silken sheets of the royals, and something inside of their king had broken. Michelle had lost her own mother the same way - but where her father was happy to see his wife in the shadows of Michelle’s face, the king was  _ pained _ to see the vistage of his wife in that of his son. Michelle never understood how one could hurt a child - innocent and without the means to protect themselves. At six she had seen the King hit her friend - the  _ Crown Prince _ \- exactly once and she would have run to stand in front of his unyielding hand if her father had not clamped a strong hand down on her shoulder and pulled her back against his legs. 

The King’s business was his alone. 

They stopped at the water - blue and stretching out to meet the horizon. It glittered in the sunlight, clear over stones at their feet and lapping up against the toes of their boots. Michelle remembered that the water matched the smile on Harry’s face - free and wide and  _ beautiful _ in the way that it flowed across sand and leather and rocks. She remembered thinking that the sun against the tips of Harry’s fireplace hair looked ethereal and new. Her chest had not ached for leaving her father behind - he had always said that she was a bird meant for more than their little kingdom and thatch roofed home. An adventurer, her father had said, someone that would explore great lands and even greater seas. He would miss her and she would miss him, but they would survive without one another - tethered as they were at the tip of their blades. 

Besides, Michelle had served only one king then as well, and he was right beside her. 

They had picnicked on bread and peaches right at the edge of the water - Harry had laid out his cape for her to sit on and had, himself, kneeled in the sand until it painted the knees of his dark pants the same light brown color. Michelle had laughed with him when the water splashed up over their fingertips and when they had found a baby turtle - limbs green and bathing in the sun - she had suggested they take it along with them. Harry, ever the bleeding heart, had bitten his lip and, instead, cupped his hands under the little thing and walked it over to the water so that it could swim wherever it lived. 

Michelle thought that  _ that _ was, perhaps, the place she could have fallen in love with him. But Harry had never wanted romantic love from her and she had never expected it of him. “Should we keep going?” Michelle asked after a moment of kicking back the water where it splashed against her shoes and coated them until she could feel it tickling at her toes. 

“Yes,” Harry turned when she did, draped the cloak over the bend of his arm and offered her a hand. Michelle grasped his fingers in hers without second thought - her hand dark against his pale skin, her callouses against the smooth dips of his hands. “Let’s go until we cannot go any longer.” 

“And then we will go just a mile farther.” 

And they did - they kept walking even after their legs ran out of steam to power them and until the sun kissed the wooden trunks of the trees that surrounded them. They kept the water on their right and sang louder than they had ever been aloud with the melody of the birds around them. They settled against a moss covered clearing - neither of them giving thought to the very real threat of the Fae that lived in that part of the woods - and Michelle thought it was rather valiant of her to offer to take the first watch. An ever present Knight sitting up to keep watch while her King slept. 

Michelle would never forgive herself for what happened next. 

She must have fallen asleep herself, back slumped against the moss that covered a giant grey stone, her King sleeping softly with the stars painting a story above her head that she did not have the language to understand. Michelle awoke when a cold blade pressed itself against the skin of her throat and the cloak Harry had given her - thick and soft - pulled abruptly off her shoulders. “These are not Fae,” said a gruff voice - thick with an accent that wasn’t from the region Michelle was used to hearing. No matter, she wasn’t concerned with  _ them _ but, rather, with the way one held her king by the hair atop his head and  _ shook _ him as though he were a doll made of string. 

His blue eyes almost glowed in the darkness and Michelle, at six, was  _ afraid _ in a way she hadn’t been afraid before in her life. “Let him go!” She yelled with a bravery she did not feel and stomped,  _ hard _ on the spine of the foot of the man that was holding her. 

She dropped and he swore, his blade banging against the skin of the rock and Michelle grabbed the hilt just as her father had taught her and stabbed it down on his leg. The man holding Harry just laughed - loud and vicious in the night air - and pointed  _ his _ blade towards her. “Are you his knight, little girl?” He sneered. “Out to save your  _ king _ ?” 

Michelle’s chin jutted out in defiance. “Let him go if you value your life.” 

“What are you going to do?” The man gave Harry a shake as his comrade behind Michelle straightened up and exclaimed in shock that she had  _ stabbed _ him. “ _ I _ have the knife.” 

“Kill ‘er.” The man she had stabbed said through gritted teeth. “Little  _ whore _ is more trouble than she’s worth.” 

The other man laughed and when he shoved Harry out of his grip - Harry’s golden crown tumbling from the top of his head and onto the moss covered ground and hands scraping against rocks as he clambered to his knees - Michelle saw that he had a red and yellow suit of armour covering his body and was missing several fingers on his right hand. “Stop whining, Gregory.” The three fingered man said with a sneer and laughed again when Michelle threw her own small body between his foot and Harry’s back. “Would you look at this? The Goblin brat has himself a consort already.” 

Michelle held a rock tight in the palm of her hand and held her other out behind her to grip at the front of Harry’s shirt in case one of them tried to rip him away again. Her king, her responsibility. “Go, before I have to do something I’ll regret.” 

“Kid has spunk,” The three fingered man kneeled down in front of her and she could see, now, the cruel tilt to his mouth and the long, puckered scar across his neck where someone had tried to slice. Her heart pounded in her chest. “Do you know who you’re threatening, little girl?” 

“Do  _ you _ know who you are threatening?” Harry said princely from over her shoulder. It was the voice he used to speak to the King and his younger brother when he tried to take his things. Michelle both hated it and loved it. 

“Oh Goblin Prince,” The three fingered man reached out to run a finger down Harry’s cheek and Michelle slammed the rock into the back of his hand. He shook out the limb but the smile on his face - and the one across his neck - did not even falter. “You are property of the Iron Kingdom, now.” 

A loud bang had the night flickering into sunlight through the curtains on her windows and Michelle blinked once… twice… four times before she realized she was in her bed. The whip marks against her back ached as though fresh and new and she swallowed, hard, around the memories of a night she did not even fully remember. She had fallen asleep in her clothes from the night before - her hair in a messy braid down her back and slippers kicked off under her bed. Michelle sat up with aching muscles - she had been training earlier in the previous day and her father had never been the type to go easy on her - and gripped the sheets hard. 

Try as she might, Michelle could not remember much of that day beyond the nightfall and whip marks. Whatever had happened was kept behind tight locked lips and locked doors. It was a secret Michelle wasn’t privy to even if she wished it to be hers. Harry would not say and unless Michelle happened upon the knights of the Iron Kingdom that had taken them she would not know. 

“M’lady,” a farmer bowed his head to her as she shuffled by him on her way to her father’s workshop. She nodded kindly and thought that, only years ago, it would have bothered her to be referred to as such. Michelle  _ wasn’t _ a Lady - she was on the same equal ground as all of the other commoners that lived in her village. It was a title tossed around in nightfall, folded into rumors of  _ consort _ and  _ witch _ and  _ betrothed _ . She was offered more respect by her friendship with the King and Michelle wasn’t one to correct a behavior she appreciated. 

“Let them think what they will,” Harry had said to her once, examining the plum against the leather of his glove and handing over much more coin than necessary to purchase it. “All that matters is the truth that we know.” 

Wise, it was what her father had always said Harry was even as a child. But wisdom, he had also said over a pint of ale, could do nothing against the steel of a sword. Michelle wasn’t so sure that she agreed with her father on that last point - wisdom could, perhaps, negate the need for a sword all together and, regardless, Michelle was good enough with a sword for the both of them. “Blacksmith’s daughter.” 

Michelle knew who it was without even seeing him. For one, Eugene always smelled of rose petals and burning leaves and never went anywhere without his ten personal guards. For another, he was tall enough to block out the sun and his silver crown atop his dark colored hair was a direct contrast to anything that was not inside of the castle. He did not look as though he belonged there and, perhaps it was simply Michelle, but the air seemed to gain a chill whenever he dared open his mouth. “Prince Eugene.” She inclined her head and pulled at the edges of her skirt in a low curtsey. Harry, her king, had never insisted that she greet him with anything more than an embrace but Michelle would not dare wrap her arms around Prince Eugene in fear of getting one of her own knives through her chest. “To what do I owe this honor?” 

She did not look him directly in the eye, as a woman of her station was meant to do. “I was just on my way to your father.” Eugene waved his fingers a little to shift his guards enough to allow her through and Michelle was not  _ his _ friend but she had known King Norman’s bastard child for his entire life just as she had known Harry. She stopped a step behind him. “Perhaps you would allow me to escort you?” 

Michelle was unsure  _ why _ she disliked Prince Norman so much - as long as she had known him he had been kind and soft spoken. Yet, there had always been something just a bit…  _ off _ . His hands were never warm, his eyes never smiled, and he seemed to be cursed with all of the bad that King Norman had ruled with. Prince Eugene didn’t spend time with the people but, rather, hours alone in his study or abroad on the wishes of his father. He hadn’t been present for Harry’s coronation and Michelle wondered if he had even greeted his brother - his  _ King _ \- when he had arrived back home. “Of course.” She said regardless of her feelings and slid her hand through the crook of his arm. 

Michelle supposed it all came down to  _ trust _ with Prince Eugene and the simple fact that she held none for him.

* * *

Gwen was furious. Which, in retrospect, wasn’t all that unusual. She sat fuming across from her brother - his face serious as he regarded her from across the table. In front of her was their mother’s journal and at the tip of her fingers was the prophecy she had found within it. Finding time alone with Harley was difficult and so Gwen had all but ambushed his one hour of free time to eat. Harley hadn’t been happy about it but he hadn’t shown his frustration save for the slow uptick of his eyebrow. The food was spectacular, the steady stream of sunlight outside the window reminded Gwen that she would never have to taste the bite of winter on her skin. 

This was not why she was frustrated but, rather, because Harley wasn’t  _ listening _ to her. 

Which was terribly unfair of her to claim because Harley had always listened to her even if he did not wish to. But the urgency in which she offered the prophecy was not one that Harley felt himself. Or, if he did, he was much better at keeping it hidden than Gwen could ever be. “Where did you get this?” He reached out for the journal, fingers tracing over the lines of their mother’s swirling writing before he snatched them away as if burnt. 

“Mother’s Tower.” Gwen didn’t bother lying, Harley would know she wasn’t speaking the truth and Gwen did not understand why she was to stay  _ away _ from the Queen’s library until she was a Queen herself other than  _ tradition _ . 

Harley shot her a sharp and unreadable look. “You are not supposed to go in there.” 

“I am a good climber.” Gwen shook her head. “And is that really what is important here, brother? I have a solution to our problem.” 

“A prophecy?” Harley scoffed and sat back in his chair. “Magic cannot solve our problems.” 

“This line,” Gwen pointed at the words. “Speaks of a phoenix. If we were to  _ find _ one-.”

“Yes because a phoenix is simply a thing that we can find.” Harley squeezed at the bridge of his nose and suddenly looked much older than he really was. “ Gwenhwÿfar,” he said her name as though it was an abonishment and Gwen sunk into her seat, cheeks flaming with indignation. “Wars cannot be won on prophecy and magic but by kings and queens and diplomacy.” 

“Our people are dying.” 

“And a phoenix will not be the one to save them.” Harley’s hand was warm over the skin of her own. “ _ You _ will. Cease this belief that a prophecy will fix all of Caerleon’s troubles and, instead, think of how you, their  _ Queen _ , can.”

The prophecy did not leave her mind, though, and Gwen committed it to memory - traced the words over and over in her mind as her head rested heavy against her pillow and eyes soaked in the story of the constellations above. 

_ A war shall rise from the ashes,  _

_ And its perisher will follow.  _

_ With blood of the one brought by fire _

_ And the love sealed within,  _

_ The noise of the war will mellow,  _

_ And silence shall reign again. _


	4. Four

If Peter could say one thing about the Fae it was that they kept their prisoners well taken care of. That wasn’t to say that he actually _enjoyed_ being imprisoned. It was achingly annoying, his ass was permanently etched into the corner of the cell at that point and Peter was actually growing tired of three meals a day. He missed his horse, he missed the smell of pine around him, and had he not fallen for the Fae trick in the first place he would have already been back in the Iron Kingdom if not just outside of their borders. His fingers were red raw from the hours he spent scratching at the floor, brain exhausted from running in circles in his mind for what Peter _thought_ had to have been a week. 

A _week_ at the least that he was kept in a Fae cell with no one to speak to but food appearing whenever he shut his eyes and a tepid water bath once a day. Peter feared he was losing his mind. 

He believed it, in fact, until he blinked and the same Fae that had captured him stood in front of his cell. She really _was_ beautiful, with long black hair that tumbled down her back and slender curves. Honestly, though, Peter couldn’t exactly be sure that he _hadn’t_ lost his mind and hallucinations were just a symptom of that fact. She quirked her head at him, curled her lip in general displeasure at what Peter assumed was the _humanness_ of him and shook out her hair. “Are you ready to do my bidding, human thief?” 

“I am not your slave.” Peter wasn’t _anyone’s_ slave. He had worked tirelessly in order to never fall into that pitfall - he would _not_ work for anyone other than himself or those he deemed worthy. 

“Oh but you _are_ my property, red blood.” She spoke slow and soft like the brush of wind against autumn leaves. Her finger tips trailed over the metal of the bars that kept him in place and her wings - white and translucent - sparkled in the morning sunlight. “You ate from _my_ fruit and you have been consuming _my_ gifts. You are my _pet_.” 

Peter disliked that sentiment on principle alone. He belonged to no one and he never _had_ . He was his own person, independent and strong, and he had followed very specific paths in his life to get to where he would need _no one_ but himself in order to survive. And here this Fae was - declaring him as _less than_ because of the blood that ran through his veins and the _title_ she deemed him worthy of. 

They were no better than the rest of them. Humans, Fae, witches, warlocks… they were all the same in the end. 

Still, she was right. Peter _had_ eaten her food. He _had_ used her bath and slept under her roof. He _did_ owe her a debt that came with that even if he wished he hadn’t been dumb enough to fall for the trick. The great Spider Thief… captured by an apple. “What would you have of me, _master_?” 

“A necklace.” 

“A _necklace_ ?” Peter scoffed. “Did you take me simply to _employ_ me? My lady, all you had to do was ask.”

* * *

Litha was first and foremost a celebration of life. It lasted all day long, from the time the sun rose over the tops of the hills, set under the blades of grass, and rose again the following day. It was the day that the sun kissed the crops the longest and the welcoming in the morning chill until the darkness started to rule the days. It was on Litha that many of the Fae held weddings and handfastings, couples would renew promises to one another and others would exchange vows. The Queen and King of Caerleon would spend the day with the people, their crowns left in the throne room and royal garments shed to look like those they served. 

Gwen liked Litha the most. 

Her dress cut off at the mid calf, allowing space for her bare legs to brush against the soft dew of the grass. The greens braided with yellow and pinks brushed against her bare shoulders and her hair cascaded long past her chin. On her fingers sat the rings of the mothers before her and on her neck the braided chain of her mother - lace twisted with silk and cotton to make a circle that fell between her breasts - the visage of her people hanging like glass off the end next to her heart. “Beautiful,” her brother said, fingers linked between her own and spinning her on the ball of her bare feet. 

His wife, with her hand resting comfortably on top of a tiny bump, smiled serenely by the door. Rossa looked beautiful as well - the light blues of her dress a compliment to the accents in Harley’s shirt of lace leaves. Blue was the color of her family and the pinks of the flowers around her midriff the color of theirs. Gwen pressed a kiss to both of her cheeks and then, when allowed, one quickly to the growing baby in her belly. “You look radiant, my princess.” Rossa brushed back the hair that had fallen into her eyes and paused on a freckle. 

Kisses of the fire that had taken her mother, the people whispered. Harley said that they were gifts from the sun. “And you look as glowing as the sea.” Gwen wrapped Rossa’s arm in her own and together they stepped out of the castle and towards the throng of music that had been playing all night. The hunt had gathered them food for their festivities and the smells were tantalizing enough to make the tips of Gwen’s tongue salivate for a taste. No one bowed as she walked by but she was as aware of their gaze on her as she was the tips of grass over the tops of her feet. 

Her eyes fluttered shut, her palms turned outwards to feel the breeze flow between the vessel of her fingers, and her lips tugged up into a smile as the music crescendoed in the space around her. 

Home. 

Let the festival begin.

* * *

The Midsommar celebration came upon them faster than Harry would have preferred. Between meetings of diplomacy and Eugene’s untimely arrival back home the crown of the King felt heavier than he ever imagined it would. The celebrations had always been muted in the castle - his father would have the cooks prepare a feast and invite the nearby kingdoms to participate in the offerings to the Gods. But Harry had been able to see from his window the way the people celebrated - loud in the daylight and straight through the setting sun - fires blazing and skirts hiked as they jumped hand and hand over the flames. 

They always seemed happy and joyous and they _always_ extended the invitation to their royal family. His father had simply never accepted before. 

Harry had never been to a celebration of the people before but Michelle had all but insisted on it, and far be Harry to be the one to deny Michelle anything she _insisted_ on. “Too royal,” she said with an upturned nose at the cloak he had thrown over his shoulders and tugged on the strings until it fell at their feet. 

“But not the crown?” He raised a brow at her and she poked it until it fell back down. 

“You could take it off,” Michelle brushed her fingers over the gold and then down to the waves of his hair. “But everyone would still know who you are, my king.” 

Harry winced at the title. “Please, don’t _you_ start calling me that too.” 

“It is who you are.” 

“It is _what_ I am, not who I am.” 

Michelle pursed her lips but said no more on the subject. “Will your brother be joining us today?” She asked it with innocence but Harry knew Michelle enough to know the tone of delicate subject matter. 

“No,” He bent to pick up the cloak that had pooled around his feet and draped it, instead, over his arm as he shifted uncomfortably in the common area of Michelle’s home with her father. He had spent many hours in the Blacksmith’s home and workshop growing up and yet he always felt as though he were intruding. “My brother wishes only to bed women and drink the palace out of all it’s wine while he _mourns_ our father.” Mourns. Harry spit out the word as though it were something nasty. Mourning was not something that was awarded to a King. He was to be considered lucky to have received the hour he had after news of his father’s death had reached him. 

“Pity.” Although the way Michelle said the word it didn’t _sound_ like a pity. She adjusted his crown so that the weight of it was off his forehead and untied the string keeping his shirt shut before finally deeming him worthy of the public eye. “Are you ready for this, _Harold_?” 

“I think I liked it better when you called me King.” 

“ _King_ Harold.” 

He scowled and rubbed at the back of his neck, his ears red in the summer heat. “After you, m’lady.” Michelle stuck out her chin and winked before turning her back on him. Her dress was a pastel purple and feet bare - as was the tradition, she told him. The fabric hung low around the back of her waist - in fact it didn’t cover her back at all and it would have been painfully inappropriate if Harry didn’t offer up the illusion of _King’s Consort_ for her to wear like the armor it was. On her arm was a band of flowers, bronze and glimmering and her hair fell in dark ringlets across her bare shoulders. She led them out and Harry followed only after a moment of hesitation. 

The people hadn’t been at his coronation - they had heard of the passing of the King, of course, and the new title of their once Crown Prince was certainly big news. But they hadn’t been deemed welcome for the event itself other than the nobility and… the nobility would all be at the castle celebrating however it was Eugene saw fit to celebrate. The sun was bright and air clear that Midsommar day, the sky a crystal blue and grass a bright yellow green. Music from the flutes danced through the air, drums intermingingly every now and then, and twisting around the music were the smells of the town around him. Fresh baked bread and cooking food, incense and ale. It was loud and boisterous and, in the center of it all, was the giant bonfire that the people had erected. It was a good deal away from the homes and the woods, just in case anything wild decided to strike. The flames licked the air and couples and children danced as though they were children of the Earth. 

Michelle held his hand in her own, strong and calloused, yet small and fair boned. Strapped to her thigh was a long knife that she took with her everywhere. Harry knew it was the one that she had made herself when she was young - the first blade crafted by a daughter of the trade. She had asked Harry to help her carve in the words on it’s blade - _I slay only to protect_ \- and Michelle allowed no one to hold it but her own deft and careful fingers. It was as beautiful and unassuming as she was, yet as deadly as any blade was at the end of her hand. “Cora!” A mother’s sharp tone barked just as a small body collided with his legs and Harry stumbled only to grab onto the body of the little girl that had run into him. 

She looked up at him with wide and terrified eyes and her mother looked much the same. Her tiny hands had been carrying a handful of flowers - an offering to one of the Gods or Goddess of the day - and they now sat by his feet in a pile of mud. “My King,” Michelle’s voice warned as he dropped her hand and knelt down to fetch the flora. 

A thorn pricked the tip of his thumb and a bead of blood danced on the tip and the little girl, innocence painted in the shadows of dirt on her face, had a wobbling lip and tears swimming in her eyes when he finally looked at her. “Are these yours?” He posed the question quietly and held them out for her to take, her tiny grubby hand closing on the stems just underneath his own. “Careful for the thorns.” 

“W… what do you say, Cora?” Her mother said with bated breath. 

“Thank you, my King.” She held onto the edges of her dress and curtseyed. 

Harry tried for his best disarming smile. “Your name is Cora, yes?” 

“Yes, my King.” Her mother’s hand closed over her daughter’s shoulder and the little girl fell back against her mother’s legs.

“Tell me, Lady Cora, would you happen to know which of the Gods we are honoring here today?” 

There were effigies all around to the Gods and Goddesses that were to be honored on that day and if he shut his eyes he remembered learning about them in the books left in the swirling handwriting of his mother. “The Oak King wins a fight against the Holly King today!” 

Harry laughed at her enthusiasm. “That is completely right, my Lady. I don’t suppose you know _exactly_ how we are meant to be celebrating?” 

“I do!” 

“Would you like to show me?” He pitched his voice low as though telling a secret. “I’ve never been to one of these before.” 

The child looked up at her mother and tugged sharply on the end of her dress. “Can I?” 

“If… if it is okay, your majesty.” 

“I should be the one asking you for permission,” Harry stood and brushed off the invisible lint from his trousers. “I am the one taking Lady Cora’s time.” 

The older woman seemed at a loss for words and nodded, once, and then twice and then a third time like her head didn’t know what else to do. Harry offered his hand to the young girl and winked at the knowing look Michelle sent over her shoulder. “After you, my lady.”

* * *

“A princess,” Gwen’s hand flew to her breast. “Should be with her people, not away from them, or am I horribly incorrect?” 

The stranger that had spoken was not wearing the traditional garments of the Fae during Litha but, instead, a darker shade of green and yellow. They matched nicely with his hair - dark enough brown that it was almost black - and contrasted with the light tan of his skin. He was beautiful, in the way that all creatures that did not belong were beautiful. “What is a human doing inside our borders?” Gwen asked the question without a hint of fear, though her eyes traced around the people in attendance for the easiest to grab for help if she were to need it. 

He smiled and it was a handsome one, crooked and a little cruel and offset with eyes the color of wet summer mud. “Perhaps I snuck my way inside.” 

“Impossible.” Gwen countered with a scowl. The borders of Caerleon were powerful things - erected with the death of the Alev and the fire that had burned out from his body when he was slain by his own people. “Why are you here?” 

“Would you believe me?” The human asked, head tilted to the side and a smile still carving a line into his face. “If I were to tell you that I ate a forbidden fruit, was kept by one of your Fae for a week, and then released only on the grounds that I steal a necklace from her soon to be Queen?” 

Something cold squeezed around Gwen’s heart. It was true that all of her people did not love her as much as they had loved her mother - or even her brother and Rossa - she had never thought one of them would go as far as to have the necklace that was her birthright taken from her. Unconsciously, her fingers toyed with the braided chain and eyes narrowed at him. “Why would you tell me?” 

“My name is Peter.” He said instead of answering, leaning on the stone she had been resting against only moments before with an ease and grace that Gwen had never been able to possess. “And I do not particularly enjoy being someone’s lap dog.” 

“You ate her fruit.” Gwen argued but did not relax herself. “You are hers to order.” 

“ _I_ belong to no one.” He hissed through clenched teeth and curled his fingers into a tight fist. 

“The rules say-.” 

“Your _rules_ are meant to steal children away from their families.”

“We would never!” Gwen poked at his chest with a strong finger and he stumbled backwards a step or two. “Those are stories that _your_ kind created to keep your children from running off to seek refuge within our kingdom. Perhaps if humans were _kinder_ to their young they would not have to _lie_ in order to keep them from leaving.” 

“It was actually a story told to keep children from accepting food from strangers.” The human, Peter, argued. 

Gwen reached to grab at her necklace but her hand met only the skin of her neck instead. Eyes wide she looked down and then back up but he was already halfway across the field. “Hey!” Gwen took off in a chase, feet kicking up dirt and grass as she sped after him. “Stop! Thief!” 

He was quick and nimble and Gwen was more than a little impressed to see him grab onto the branch of a tree and use it to swing himself over the guards that tried to lunge at him. He moved with an effortless speed, as though he had been doing this all of his life. _This_ , Gwen thought, as in stealing from princesses during a sacred festival. 

Unfortunately for Peter, while Gwen always stood out during events her brother did not and Harley smacked a hand directly into the thief’s chest and sent him flying backwards. His back hit the soil with a clang and around the two men a circle seemed to appear from the Fae that surrounded them to keep watch. “ _This_ ,” Harley said with the braided cord dangling from his fist and Gwen pulling up to a stop beside him. “Does not belong to you.” 


	5. Five

The royal prison was… less inviting than the one Peter had previously been kept in. Contrary to what his captors were saying, he was quite adept at escaping capture if the need arose. That being said Peter didn’t  _ actually _ have experience breaking out of a Fae prison. And they were  _ much _ better at keeping things  _ inside _ than normal human prisons tended to be. 

Peter seriously debated all of his life choices that had led up to that point - leaving his home with Aunt May, stepping foot inside of the Iron Kingdom, the years of training and petty theft, eating that  _ damn _ apple. He kicked at the empty barrel they had left for him to sit on until his foot broke through the old and weakened wood, splinters prickling their way through his boots to his toes and longed for the comforting touch of his Aunt to soothe the pounding behind his eyes. They hadn’t given him water, or food, or a bed to sleep on and he supposed they shouldn’t - Peter  _ was _ awfully crafty and he  _ had _ stolen from their Crown Princess just days - well he  _ thought _ it was days, anyway - before. He tugged his foot free of the barrel and sighed, long and loud, arms wrapped tight around his stomach. 

He was tired and hungry and dreadfully thirsty - what Peter wouldn’t give for a cup of ale right about then - and the cell had the sort of draft where he wasn’t sure if it was real or simply perceived. He didn’t long for his previous captor - of course he didn’t, a captor was a captor no matter how  _ kind _ they perceived themselves to be when offering a bed, food, and liquid. At least in the royal prison he knew what was to become of him. Or rather, he knew what all of the other Kings and Queens would have done to him. 

Peter was a thief and thieves tended to either lose a limb or be crucified in front of the masses to “make a statement”. He was exactly fond of either of those options but with his mind all but running on empty Peter couldn’t think of one conceivable plan to avoid the inevitable. 

Oh if Aunt May could see him. She would have clucked her tongue on the back of her throat and shook her head in that proud but disappointed way that she did when he messed up the Mabon traditions during the harvest festival. 

Peter sunk to the ground, back against the cold stone wall and head bowed. He wasn’t giving up - Peter  _ never _ gave up - but he would allow himself a moment to be fatalistic. He sunk all the way down until his bum rested against the uneven floor and bent his head over his knees. 

_ Say your prayers, baby _ , Aunt May would have whispered against the shell of his ear, her voice soft and soothing and hand brushing the hair away from his forehead.  _ Pray to the Gods for salvation and mercy and offer what you can give them in return. This is not your fate tonight, Peter. _

It sure felt like his fate though. And hadn’t Peter been chasing it for years - teasing it and reaching out for it just to snatch back his fingers from it’s gaping maw with a wicked smile. Outlaw, thief, troublemaker,  _ criminal _ . The great Spider Thief. Quick and small with deft and deadly fingers to steal from Kings and Queens and steal from beneath their gazes. He rubbed at the back of his neck and counted the cracks in the stone beneath his feet. How many had died in this Fae prison? How many humans had they ever taken upon as charges only to not know how to keep them alive enough to make a spectacle of them? Peter hadn’t seen any other non Fae during the festival he had attended the day before. 

“If you are so good at what you do,” The voice didn’t startle him, although Peter supposed it should, and when she stepped gracefully and near silent across the floor he found he didn’t have the energy to look up. He shouldn’t have sat down, his muscles were lethargic and mind exhausted and Peter couldn’t find much energy to survey his surroundings and catalogue his location or the woman standing before him. “Then why did you let yourself get caught?” She said it like it was a matter of fact and, well, Peter supposed it was. 

Still, he took a personal offense to her words. He hadn’t  _ let _ himself get caught, in fact, if he would have been able to outrun  _ and _ outmaneuver  _ any _ human giving chase. The problem wasn’t that he was not  _ good _ at what he did - oh no, Peter was simply the  _ best _ and that wasn’t simply ego speaking - it was that he was terribly unused to stealing from the Fae. If he had been granted time to  _ practice _ then… well then he would have been fine. He wouldn’t have been caught. He would have made it safely to his original captor, handed over the necklace, and been released back into human - and more predictable - soil. Peter glared up at her through his bangs. “I did not  _ let _ myself get caught.” 

Her lips twitched, small and pink to match the blush on her cheeks. “Of course, because who could ever dare catch the  _ Spider Thief _ .” She said his pseudonym as though it were an insult and Peter got the feeling she didn’t much like spiders. If he were to be honest that was why he had chosen the name - he wasn’t much a fan of them either (you would never catch Peter singing a ballad praising the beasts) but he could not say that the fear such a name struck in his enemies wasn’t refreshing. “What sort of name is that anyway?” Delicate fingers trailed along the bars of his prison, nails long and painted purple and playing a harmony on the brass as though it were simply a song stuck in the back of her mind. “ _ Spider Thief _ . Do you steal only spiders, then?” 

Teasing. 

She was  _ teasing _ him. 

He supposed the Crown Princess of Carleon was beautiful, in the ethereal way all Fae’s were beautiful. Her hair, the white of a fresh coat of snow, curled against the point of her chin, sun spots danced on the back of her hands and she had green eyes that were the perfect match for the grass outside. She was slender and lightly muscled and the way the Fae wore dresses were much shorter than revealing than that of the human women Peter spent most of his time with. He could see above her knee, toned and sunkissed skin stretching down to the tips of her toes. The Fae also weren’t fond of shoes and stuck to the tops of her feets were dew covered leaves that she must have picked up on her way across the common to visit him. Crown Princess  Gwenhwÿfar with her burnt wings that only seemed to burn more in the afternoon sunlight. “And why are you visiting  _ me _ , Princess?” Peter asked, eyes back down on the creases of her toes instead of up at her face. “A simple human is not much for your royal eyes to gaze upon.” 

She was quiet for a long moment, simply standing before him and Peter wondered what she saw when she gazed at his hunched shoulders and matted hair. He was in need of a haircut, a bath, a hot meal, and at the least three days rest. “You seemed much more…  _ fun _ .” She said with a put upon sigh. “At the festival you at the least were a verbal sparring partner.” 

“At the festival I was distracting you with fancy words and diatribes to lift your necklace from your delicate neck before you could even think to notice.” He spoke to his knees and scowled as though they were the things at fault for him being where he currently was. “I apologize for not being up to par with your expectations when I have yet to eat, sleep or drink in your  _ royal _ prison, Princess.” 

“Have the guards not been feeding you?” She looked around herself as though she would find them in the corners, frowning their apologies and shoving food in his direction. “We are not savages,  _ human _ .” 

She spoke as though  _ he _ was - as though his kind were perhaps the worst savages in the entire realm. He supposed she was speaking the truth if that was indeed her thought. Humans had been the ones to wipe the Fae from near existence and send them into hiding. So afraid they were of anything different that they even attacked their own kind when they didn’t fit into the molds that were expected of them. She knelt down, her skirt ruffling out over her thighs, and stretched a bare arm through the bars to hand him a cloth full of something Peter didn’t want to take. She frowned and it pulled at the corner of her lips until realization filled in the lines of her face. “Oh,” she spoke softly. “I expect nothing of you if you take it and eat. It was meant to be my reading snack and clearly you need it more than I.” 

Peter told himself that he only took it because he was hungry, not because he was accepting her kindness. Still, he held it in his hand, opened the cloth she had wrapped the food in, and swallowed down the salivation that built at the smell of fresh baked bread that wafted out. He was very hungry. “What do you expect from this kindness?” He asked the bread as though that was what would answer him back. 

“I expect nothing.” She repeated. 

“Everyone expects something.” It was the constant give and take of the world - the push and pull of those that  _ had _ and those that  _ wanted _ . She had food and he  _ wanted _ the food. He had  _ something _ and she  _ wanted _ what it was that he was perceived to be in possession of. 

Peter glanced up at her, watched as she bit at her lip with hooded eyes and gazed at his being without seeing him. “My people,” She spoke slowly, almost as though saying the words aloud scared even her. “Are suffering in a war I didn’t even know we were fighting until a few days ago.” 

“Silent wars are often the most devastating.” The bread was sweet and just the right amount of plush and it melted on the tip of his tongue. Perhaps it was less a  _ bread _ and more a cake. Or maybe it was something completely different that he did not have knowledge of - some forbidden sort of dessert only in the Fae realm. 

“What do you know, Spider Thief, of Onryx… and their Goblin King?” 

\--

Michelle was a fearless fighter and her sword clanged loudly with the steal of his own to push him back, back,  _ back _ . Harry’s foot slipped over the gravel, boots scrambled for purchase, and he teetered on the edge of the world until she grabbed a fistfull of his tunic and yanked him forward. Her eyes spoke of a silent warning -  _ tell _ her next time when he was getting close to the edge instead of tempting fate to see if the Gods would decide today was the day he was meant to go over the edge of the cliff they practiced on. He smiled ruefully and tossed his sword to his other hand - blade dull as the swords were meant merely for practice and handles worn from years of use. “Do you have a death wish?” Michelle said through gritted teeth and flexed her wrist. 

“I offer myself merely as a temptation for the Gods to feast upon.” She snarled and Harry laughed at the bared teeth she shot in his direction. He had always been reckless when it came to fighting, not at all as prepared for war as Michelle tended to be. She thought through every motion, every step, every movement her opponents even dared make. In all of the years Harry had known her and trained with her she was always,  _ always _ , ten steps ahead. 

Harry wasn’t exactly a terrible swordsman, though. He wasn’t nearly as good as Michelle but, then again Harry doubted many people were. He had watched her hold her own against ten highly trained guards and come out with only a scratch to show for her fight. Harry was often distracted, had to work to keep his temper in check, and was much too sympathetic - Michelle’s words, not his own - when it came to dealing blows. Therefore, he was easy to manipulate in a fight. Show that a blow hurt and he would fold to offer comfort. 

His father had made it well known that it wasn’t exactly a trait becoming of a king. 

Yet he was in the grave and Harry was the one with the crown. 

Surely, they would find out soon whether his father was correct in that assumption. 

“The Gods will strike you down if you keep tempting them.” Michelle burst forward, the steel of her blade catching the sun and slashing down at his throat. If they were not dulled and if Harry had not raised his own to block her blow it would have slashed down on the junction between his neck and shoulder and rendered him useless. 

“Oh I beg they try.” Harry was joking, of course. He did not have a death wish and he wasn’t actively tempting the Gods to throw him over a cliff. Michelle was simply quicker than his words, sometimes, and when in a fight he tended to rely more on instinct than thought. 

“A less kind opponent,” She said with a huff in her breath as they masterfully danced around each other. “Would have pushed you over the edge.” 

“And you would have their head, wouldn’t you? To have lost me in such a dramatic way.” He stopped short, his sword suddenly out of his grip and pointed towards his stomach and her own tickling the base of his throat. He quirked an eyebrow and nudged it gently with the tip of his finger out of the way and Michelle’s own lips twitched upwards into a smile as she tossed him back his weapon. 

“Again.” She demanded. 

“My lady,” Harry laughed even as he stabbed the blade into the plush grass and drew up his shirt to wipe at the sweat that dripped down his forehead. “We have been at this for hours. I fear anymore will have me  _ actually _ passing onto the realm of the dead.” 

Michelle rolled her eyes but followed suit, her own blade digging into the dirt beside his. She brushed a cloth over her face and took a long pull from his offered flask of water before sitting beside him on a large rock. This far up they could see the entire kingdom stretched beneath them - long patches of green and smoke rising into the clear blue sky as the people below cooked, worked, and went about their daily business. “It is foolish,” Michelle said after a moment of quiet peace. The two of them were sitting much too closely together for there to not be rumors if anyone were to see them, but Harry was already well aware of what people said. Consort, they whispered in the halls. Even Eugene had asked him when he was to offer her his hand in marriage at dinner a few days before. Harry had said nothing in response. Michelle was his greatest friend and he would be lucky to have someone like her by his side for the rest of his life. 

But he did not love Michelle and she did not love him. Not in the way a husband must love a wife. 

“What is?” He asked even if he knew what her answer was to be. 

“To be out here without a guard.” Michelle flipped a knife in her hand and Harry, briefly, wondered where she had gotten it from. He hadn’t seen it earlier but, then again, Michelle was full of many surprises. “Even a close friend could slit your throat and no one would be any wiser.” 

He blinked at her. “You would never harm me, Michelle.” And he knew it. He knew it in a way that he couldn’t explain if he were asked. He had never trusted anyone that hadn’t stabbed him in the back before. Michelle was the only one. 

“Do not tempt me, my King.” 

“Is it temptation?” He asked, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his gaze at her. “Or is it a warning?” 

“It is not wise, Harry.” 

“When is anything I do wise, Chel?” 

She stared at him for a long moment, her dark eyes cataloging things he didn’t even know he was projecting towards her. Michelle traced his outline with her eyes and he watched as wayward curls tried to pull themselves from the tight braided bun she had arranged on the top of her head. “You need a guard, my friend. Someone that you can trust.” 

“That’s easy then,” Harry turned his face towards the sun. “As the only person I can trust is you.” 

A beat, the brush of the wind over the grass. “I am a lady.” 

“And I am a King and can appoint whomever I please.” 

\--

Gwen didn’t much know what to make of her brother’s prisoner. He was the first human she had ever met and she couldn’t help wondering if they were all so… peculiar. He ate slowly even though it was clear he was ravenous and when she offered him water he didn’t sip at it until she did herself. He was handsome, she supposed, dark colored and dull in the way that humans tended to be. He had a spark about him though, a sharpness to his shape that hinted that he was more than he appeared. 

Gwen did not wish to befriend him but she did wish to pick his brain. 

Gwen had a plan - a reckless and idiotic plan though it may be. But a plan nonetheless. Her brother was doing only what he believed was right when it came to his people, but Gwen as their future queen had to make better decisions. She was a strong believer in Fate and of the strings the ancestors could pull from beyond the veil. There was a  _ reason _ she had found that prophecy and there was a  _ reason _ it said to look for phoenix fire. 

“Onryx wishes to destroy my people.” 

“Onryx,” the Spider Thief pronounced the word differently, barely glanced over the  _ n _ and crashed against the  _ r _ like waves upon the shore. “Wishes to take over the world for themselves.” 

He seemed to speak from an experience that Gwen didn’t have. “Would you help me?” She pleaded her case. “Even though I have given you no reason to help me?” 

“The Goblin King took something from me a very long time ago.” And there it was… the  _ spark _ she could see dancing in his gaze. It hinted at something dangerous dancing on the edge of a curved blade. 

“I would help you get it back.” Gwen pressed. “If you helped me.” 

“There is nothing left to get back.” Oh, Gwen thought. It was a life, then, that the Goblin King had stolen. “I ask only for revenge.” 

Gwen pursed her lips before deciding. “His head is yours to take.” 

“Then I am at your assistance, Princess."


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao finally we're getting somewhere. I apologize for the slow advance 😂

“Is the King secretly a jester?” Lucien chortled from beside the horses, his light eyes scorching a hole through Michelle’s glittering silver chainmail breastplate. In truth, Michelle was terribly unsure of her own position among the King’s Guard. They were all older, bigger, and rough. Michelle, though she could hold her own amongst the strongest of men, was small, slight and, though she was loath to admit it,  _ delicate _ . Or at least much more delicate than any of the men that stood before her. “Because this is a truly splendid joke.” The Knights around him laughed, loud and boisterous with the stench of ale on their breath. 

Women did not usually fight. 

Michelle wasn’t like most women. 

In truth, though, Michelle could admit that Harry’s appointment of her as Captain of his Guard  _ was _ rather humorous. Not only did it strike to the general public how much she was  _ not _ his royal consort but it also was yet another deliberate side step from the way tradition dictated he rule. Not that Michelle was  _ against _ Harry’s appointment - it was true that there was no one but her that he could trust in his court. Michelle wouldn’t trust Lucien as far as the tip of his sword and Prince Eugene was… a fragile matter that she barely bothered to poke. He hadn’t been raised in the castle until he was ten and even then… the relationship between brothers had always been strained. Harry had supporters though, more than most anyone could see. They weren’t those with coins, though, that supported his rule, but the people he spoke to in the streets and the children he sat with around fires once weekly to read from story books. 

The People’s King. 

It was an honorable thing to be until it got him killed. 

Michelle pat the coarse hair of her own horse and ran the tips of her fingers over the handle of her sword. Honorable, Michelle thought with a sneer, unlike the men that had sworn to protect him in his guard. If Michelle were to be honest to herself - which was the least she could be - she had been waiting years to put them all in their respective places. The majority of the rumors spread about their king were from their lips first. The majority of the rumors spread about  _ her _ were from their lips. 

And people said it was the  _ women _ that gossiped. Clearly, they had never spent an afternoon with members of the royal army. 

“Do you believe this spot should be held by  _ you _ ?” Michelle asked without turning around, removed the saddle from the tawny horse and pet his nose before leading him across the uneven earth towards the watering bucket. A cluster of horses were grazing not far beyond, belonging to those that were now beneath her. Michelle would be lying if she said that she did not enjoy the change in status. 

The men guffawed and Michelle fought hard to keep her smirk hidden behind a look of blank indifference. They didn’t speak, though, not until she had turned to face them, an eyebrow quirked in expectation. “Well? Or have you all been cursed of your ability to do more than drunkenly laugh?” 

“My  _ lady _ ,” Lucien bowed dramatically, tipping himself so far downwards that his head almost slammed into the dirt at his feet. “I do believe you have lost your place. Of course, I can always offer one of my men to escort you back to the King’s bedchambers.” 

Michelle felt whatever pleasantness she had been previously able to muster melt away from the lines of her face. A white hot rage pulled at her insides - she was well versed in what people said about her - so much so that their words barely stung anymore - but to blatantly disrespect their  _ King _ to that level was paramount to treason. She felt her fingers grip tighter to the handle of her sword, and could feel the warm steel of her throwing knives on the skin of her arm where she had strapped them. This would be a fight and Michelle found she was  _ always _ prepared for a fight. “I would be careful, if I were you, Lucien.” She said the words slowly - three men to her left, unsteady from their night earlier, and two to her right - one with a newborn at home and lacking sleep. Lucien would, ideally, be the only one that was a real challenge but even he seemed too arrogant to be afraid of a lady like Michelle. She had heard rumors about him too, about how he liked the younger, unwed girls that said  _ no _ . About how his hands always grabbed for more and took what they weren’t willingly given. 

She ached to knock him down a peg or two. “Or what, my lady?” He straightened, his grey eyes looking into hers with a challenge. He was to heads taller than her, an entire body bulkier, but that would only serve to make him slow. “My sword is triple the weight of that little thing you have strapped to your side -.” 

Michelle was used to being underestimated. Her sword was near silent when it left her sheath and her reflexes trained to be quicker than most men. The tip danced in front of his throat, steady and silver and  _ sharp _ and oh how Michelle dared him with her eyes to take a step closer. Ram himself into her blade until it was stained with the crimson of his blood. She watched as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple dipping and raising with the motion and the grey of his eyes turning a dangerous dark color. He was posed to strike, but so was Michelle. He reached for his blade at his waist and her blade twisted with his grip. It cut through his skin like butter and a spray of his blood coated the grass beneath their feet. He was not maimed, merely injured on the surface, yet still he made a noise like a wounded cow fall from his throat. “Speak your treason again,  _ Knight _ , and I will have your head.” 

\--

Gwen pulled her hood down low over her head and tried her hardest to sneak through the tall grass and towards where her brother kept the royal prisoner. Her mother’s journal was held tight in her grasp, as was the dagger Harley had gifted her with when she was ten - green gold and purple stones housed along the handle. A blade for Queens, he had said with that voice he used to tell her when things had once belonged to their mother. A shame, he had told her once, that she wasn’t there to give them over herself. Even if she would have happily stepped aside for her son to do it instead. 

Gwen swallowed past the lump in her throat and gripped the strap of the leather bag she had pilfered tighter. The moon painted the ground with it’s pure white fingers and lit a path for her to follow and Gwen didn’t need no other sign to know that even if it felt wrong what she was doing was right. 

To save her people she needed to find the phoenix. And to find the phoenix she needed to leave her kingdom. 

It was an action worthy of a Queen and if Gwen were to be Queen then she would have to be prepared to sacrifice more than just her own life to save those of her people. 

The metal on the door was still hot from that morning’s sun, but Carleon had always been quiet in evenings. Gwen didn’t have to worry about being overheard when every logical Fae was inside enjoying the time with their family or curled up by the window with a good book. She steeled herself, set her shoulders and  _ pushed. _

Perhaps she shouldn’t have been quite as shocked as she was at how empty and unguarded her brother left the dungeons. They did not normally have prisoners in Caerleon and the royal family tended to keep even  _ less. _ Gwen did find it a bit rude to have left their prisoner in the dark, though. Sure, Peter had tried to steal the very thing that named Gwen as Crowned Princess but he hadn’t tried to  _ kill _ her. Harley had always been protective, though and Gwen couldn’t fault him for that. She had always been a troublemaker regardless of her birth. 

The Spider Thief - Peter - sat where she had left him with his head bowed and hands hanging empty over his knees. The cloth she had filled with food and the cup she had lent full of water were both in the corner of the cell, their contents missing almost guilty. He did not trust her and, if Gwen were to be honest, she did not trust him much either. She had no reason to and she had given him even less. Still, he was her best hope for the situation and Gwen was his only means of escaping with his life. “Spider Thief?” 

He did not jump. He never jumped. Gwen had a feeling that he had known she was there before she had even touched the door. Humans were curious creatures, Gwen found herself thinking for what had to be the twentieth time in the last few days. “Princess.” He said the title as though it were something so very beneath him to use and when he looked up it wasn’t at her but, instead, at the open door she had left behind her. “Are you not afraid of being found?” 

She glanced behind her out at where the moon dotted the grass with white tendrils of light. “No, the guards have all been dismissed for the night.” 

“And that was your doing?” He stood, surprisingly not shaky even after so little food, water and sleep. 

Curious. “Do human guards not get the night off?” 

He stared at her and then stared a moment longer until Gwen shifted uncomfortably under his dirt brown gaze. “People like me strike best at night. And so the guards stay until morning.” 

“And then they receive the morning off? To rest and recuperate?” 

“And then a new set takes their place.” 

That was awfully odd. How then did the King and Queens of the human land ever find a moment of peace? She opened her mouth to ask but then thought better of it. They would have time to talk once they were out of the main gates and Gwen was terribly antsy. She wanted nothing more than to begin her quest and be back with the phoenix fire to fortify their borders and protect her people. 

Gwen danced her fingers over the lock, felt the tingle of the metal through her pinky and traced the carved outline of a tulip with her fingertip. She felt his eyes on her as the lock shifted and clicked before swinging outward into her outstretched hand. Curious, she thought again, at the look of offended awe on his face. “That door was locked. I couldn’t even find a keyhole to pick.” 

She cocked her head until she felt the soft pokes of her hair against the tip of her nose. “What is a keyhole?” 

Peter threw his hands up in exasperation at her seemingly useless questions and stepped forward only when she had stepped aside and swept an arm out for him to do so. “It is that easy? To just cross the border?” 

“With me beside you it is, in fact, even easier than you stepping in.” 

\--

“Brother,” Eugene was pacing, his dark hair swept to the side in a ridiculous coil and arms clasped behind his back as he walked. “I beg you to listen.” 

“I  _ have _ been listening, Eugene.” And Harry found that he had  _ not _ been listening. He did not have to - Eugene’s rants were tantamount to their father’s. Word for word Eugene had memorized them and crafted them into his own speeches. Harry had spent the majority of his life listening to those very same rants and found he could recite them himself if he ever felt the need to. 

The brothers looked nothing alike aside from the shape of their eyes and freckles on their cheeks. Where Harry’s mother Emily had been light, Eugene’s had been dark. Dark hair, darker eyes, and dark in personality. She hadn’t been a very happy woman and her unhappiness had meshed perfectly with their father’s. Harry remembered her - a tall lady of the court that had handed him a blackened rose on his mother’s death day. She had been pregnant when his father had moved her into the castle and Harry may have harbored dreams of a step mother in her until she had caught him pocketing food from the kitchens to bring to one of the servant’s children and slapped him hard enough across the cheek to leave a bruise. He had been thankful when she had disappeared into the night. 

He had never disliked Eugene even if they did not see eye to eye. Where Harry was soft his brother was angry and Harry supposed he understood. It must have been difficult to be raised as an afterthought. It must have been painful to have their father ignore him at every turn and instead honor a son that held none of the same beliefs. Harry had always looked upon his brother with kindness, had always wished that he would find somewhere he was truly happy. 

After all, if Harry was not able to be at least he could assure the happiness of his only living relative. 

“Have you?” Eugene shot him a look of contempt, anger in his dark eyes and nostrils flaring almost comically. Out of the two of them, Harry supposed he looked the most like their father. Eugene took after his mother in everything but temperament or, well, maybe he took after her in that too. He certainly had inherited her looks of hatred. “Because the Fae are invading our borders, taking the lives of our people and working with  _ witches _ to take that crown that rests so very comfortably upon your  _ golden _ curls.” 

“You hold such contempt for beings that don’t exist outside of Father’s stories.” That wasn’t to say that Harry didn’t believe the Fae existed. He had seen their bodies when his father’s soldiers had marched them into the castle and then set them on fire in the courtyard for all the people to see and hear. Their screams had haunted his dreams, waking and asleep, for years. “Besides,” Harry flicked his gaze from his brother to the door of his chambers that Eugene had barged in through earlier. “What would it be exactly that the Fae would  _ want _ with us?” 

“You are not  _ listening  _ to me!” Eugene snarled before realizing where exactly he was. He dropped his shoulders in a quick moment and bowed his head in apology. “My  _ King _ , if the Fae are working with the witches -.” 

“You mean, of course, the witches that our father had burned, hung, and drowned until there proved no more inside our kingdom’s walls?” Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his face and lips pursed. “Or perhaps you mean the Fae that we haven’t seen within ten miles of our borders? Meanwhile, our people have been starving and enduring increasingly harsh winters that leave them without food, water, or warmth for weeks. You would have me ignore the very real threat to the lives of those that keep us in these castles in order to carry on a fruitless war that we don’t even know the reason  _ why _ it started in the first place.” 

Harry watched him settle by the window and look out at the kingdom. He hoped he was seeing what Harry saw - the homes and people milling about their daily business. He hoped that Eugene was thinking with his own thoughts instead of those that their father had forced upon him. “If we are invaded,” hope faded just as quickly as it had arrived and Harry shut his eyes with a near silent sigh of exhaustion. “Then there will be no people left to protect.” 

“Brother… Eugene.” Harry rubbed at his forehead and squinted his eyes. “Our father -”

A knock interrupted them and it was only with a noise of affirmation that had the doors opening from the outside. Lucien marched in, a greying man with an even duller face than his hair, his hand tight on the forearm of a child that all but fell in after him, bare feet cut and bleeding and covered in dirt. He had tear streaks down his cheeks both Eugene and Harry were to their feet in next to no time, Eugene’s eyes a light and sword drawn and Harry’s own eyes wide in shock. “What on  _ earth _ -!” 

“As you see, my king!” Lucien shook the boy until he fell to his knees, a soundless cry leaving his parted lips. 

“I told you, brother! The Fae are at our borders!” 

“This is a  _ child _ , Eugene!” 

“A Fae child is just one more abomination breathing our air.” Eugene’s sword tip danced dangerously in front of the child’s throat. “Let me dispose of it for you as a way to pledge my loyalty.” 

He raised his sword to strike and the boy whimpered. 

“You put that sword down  _ now _ !” Harry channeled every bit of Norman he had within him, felt his rage - so infamous and blazing - lick at the insides of his chest like a flame eating at wood. Eugene and Lucien flinched in unison but the blade did not lower. “You may be my brother, Eugene but if you  _ dare _ disobey your king it can be  _ your _ blood on the edge of that steel.” They stared at each other, blue against a dark green and anger meeting anger. Above all it was a battle of whose was to be feared more and Harry didn’t feel satisfied when his brother’s sword squeaked back into it’s hilt at his waist. “You are dismissed, Lucien.” 

“My King -.” 

“ _ Go _ !” 

His footsteps retreated slowly and Harry felt it was incredibly dangerous to look away from his brother in that moment and so he didn’t. He kept searching his eyes until Eugene’s own snapped back down to the boy quivering at their feet, red coloring his cheeks. Shame, Harry hoped, even though he knew it was something closer to rage. “This  _ thing _ will kill you in your sleep, brother.” 

“Then the crown will be yours, just as you’ve always wanted it to be.” 

Eugene sneered and stalked from the room, the doors clanging shut loudly behind him. Harry, for his part, sunk down to his knees and tried to ignore the pressure of the start of a headache starting behind his eyes. The boy was young, Harry could tell without even looking him in the eye, cheeks still full of baby fat and ears pointed just a bit out of the tip of his ink black hair. He looked a mess, covered in dirt and blood and tears and his clothes almost reduced to tatters. “I am sorry, child, for how they would have you treated.” He spoke softly and reached out, only to place his hand flat on the floor in second thought. “You do not have to forgive them. But you are safe here, for now.” 

The boy cried, broken pathetic little things that Harry was sure he had no more water left in his body to produce the tears for. His heart ached. 

Harry had always been  _ soft _ according to his father. Had always had a weakness for broken things that no one else loved. “Do you have a name? Something I can call you?” 

“Please… please don’t kill me, king.” 

“Oh…” Harry bit at his lip. “You may call me whatever you like, but I’d prefer if it were my name. Harry.” 

“Wilhelm.” 

“Wilhelm.” He smiled a bit, stood up and offered a hand down to the sniveling boy. “How about we get you a bath, Wilhelm.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments give me motivation to write while I have other things that I should be doing.


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